The club was for once a dull and quiet place. I stared at my indifferent coffee and it gazed back at me. I sighed heavily. Sigh.
There are a few reasons for all this, namely my financial advisor at the bank has told me not to “buy any green bananas.” He in his inimitable way was saying that I would probably not collect on several of the bonds he managed for me, although they would be a delight for my patient wife and ungrateful children. The only commodity in the end is time.
On top of that, two of my friends have passed to their rewards unexpectedly. Gerald, an old school chum, suddenly jumped up at a club lunch last week and started singing O Canada, then dove into his bowl of onion soup, expiring as he went. Earl, some two years younger than my present age, shouted, “I am not well, you fools!” and then sliding from the club chesterfield onto the memorial carpet.
Why? They were fine last month.
My wife, who is not charitable concerning my friends, said they were a waste of space anyway and I should get hold of myself. I gripped my groin tentatively.
I know death is to be expected at our time of life, yet there is so much more I was hoping to accomplish, and the ticking clock is not on my side. I was going to buy a dog, for instance, and I imagined the he and I would face down my wife’s wretched cats, Pericles and Bertram. A worthwhile endeavour, I would have thought, but now in jeopardy. Also perhaps a book along the lines of The Major Speaks. This could contain my inner thoughts never before heard: My views on people at the Times Colonist, my dentist, known as the “Butcher on Blanshard,” and the unspeakable nude city councillor. This is all meaty stuff with hopefully an epilogue about bringing back the noose for anyone who says “Awesome.” I want to sit in a meadow and write poetry, when it finally comes to me. But perhaps I have missed my chance.
I also have many people to thank for all the small kindnesses that have come my way, plus apologize for the wrongs I have committed, which if I am honest, I knew I was perpetrating at the time, but am ashamed of now.
My wife laughed when I made the mistake of telling her of my fast-forming plans. She thinks I should attend the little-known class: Learning to Love Your Wife’s Cats.
Balderdash! This is my life and I want a dog, not insane instruction.
Perhaps I am in the grip of some senior madness, brought on by having to face up to the small amount of sand left to me.
I had an idea that I would take up skipping in my old age. I say this even after a very bad experience long ago. I recall in my misspent youth that the girls on my street would bully me to join their games of skipping. The little gumboils in their bright sun dresses had an unseemly ability to jump amongst the flying ropes with great aplomb while reciting indecipherable rhymes like a group of freckled goblins. These blasted future women would convince me to throw myself amongst the singing strings, and then just as I got the gist of the thing would shout “Pepper” whereupon I would be bull-whipped to my knees. This outrage was followed by a series of “Tee hees” that assaulted my stinging ears. Horrible. I still distrust little girls in sun dresses with missing teeth. .
However I think I could master a skipping rope by myself with just a gentle jumping up and down before lunch.
But I still want a dog.
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mike ryan
nice one Major but skip the rope.